


Chasing Stars

by LordofLies



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Misunderstandings, NOT Dubcon, Oral Sex, Other, Sex Pollen, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, actually sex virus, but that's not a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:24:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7525486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordofLies/pseuds/LordofLies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Misfire contracts a virus that forces him to confess his feelings to Fulcrum in the most awkward way imaginable, the two must figure out where they stand with each other and what possibilities they see in this uncertain, post-war world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I just love the Scavengers and Misfire/Fulcrum a lot. So here's my first official TF fanfic! I hope you enjoy it!

To be fair, thought Fulcrum as he threw himself onto the floor and rolled under a table, Crankcase _had_ been requesting the same song on the jukebox for the last cycle and a half.  That didn’t mean Fulcrum was okay with being shot in the face because no one else liked Praxian blueglass.  Gunfire echoed overhead as the bar the Scavengers had been quietly occupying exploded into violence.  So much for their shore leave.  He scrambled backwards until his head hit the underside of the table, trying to get an idea of what was going on.

“Krok!?”  He shouted from under the table.  A pause.  Some screaming.

“Not right now, Fulcrum!”

The K-Con cautiously peeked out from under the table to see their interim commander kicking a smaller bot right in the face.

“Uh.  Do you need help?  Or should I just, er, stay down here?” he called out.

“Just try to get out without losing any limbs.  We’ll be right behind you.”

Not needing any further prompting, Fulcrum scrambled for the exit, dodging bullets and laser fire until he reached it.  When he’d gotten through the door, he turned to look back.

Crankcase was standing on the bar, busy beating in the face of the local he’d offended.  Spinister was shooting anything that moved, which mostly happened to be some neutral traders and a few aggressive looking organics, and Krok was carefully trying to maneuver his two crewmates out of the chaos and back to the ship.  That just left…

“Oh, scrap.  Misfire.”

A bit fuzzy in the processor from the high grade, Fulcrum tried to remember where the pink jet had zipped off to.  A memory of Misfire exiting the bar not too long ago, accompanied by a yellow neutral, rose to the surface.

He opened up his com link again, trying to put as much distance between him and the bar as possible.

“Hey, uh, Misfire.  Bit of an incident at the bar.  We gotta clear out now while we still can.”

“What?  It can’t wait?  I’m kinda in the middle of something…”

Or some _one_ , thought Fulcrum to himself moodily.  It didn’t take much imagination for Fulcrum to put an image to _that_ statement.

“No, it can’t wait.  Get back to the ship, now!”

“Yeesh, you’re so naggy.”

“Misfire!!”

“Okay! Alright!  I’m coming, I’m coming.”

A few kliks later, Fulcrum had the W.A.P. in sight.  The sound of engines above him signaled that Misfire had also arrived at the ship.  The jet transformed back to his root mode in midair, landing almost gracefully.

“Hey, loser,” said Misfire, grinning at his crewmate.  “Where’s everyone else?”

“Right behind us, hopefully,” replied Fulcrum.  He glanced back, but didn’t see anyone.  Anxious, he opened the com link again.

“Krok?”

“On our way,” the captain replied, sounding more exhausted than usual.  “Get the engines running,  Crankcase is injured.”

“Ah, great.”  He closed the com again, grimacing. 

“What?  What’d they say?”

“Get the ship started,” repeated Fulcrum, running up the entrance ramp.  “Crankcase is injured, don’t know how badly.”

As it turned out, Crankcase had not gotten the “don’t lose any limbs” memo that Fulcrum had.  When Krok and Spinister returned to the ship with a limping Crankcase in tow, it was immediately apparent that he now possessed only one leg.

“I’ll get us off this rock.  Spinister, go see to Crankcase,” said Krok.

“I can still pilot!  I’ve got both my arms!” groused Crankcase.

“Not from the medibay you can’t.  Get your leg fixed, then you can pilot.  Misfire, assist Spinister.  Fulcrum, go check the engines.”

As Misfire helped Spinister support a griping, cussing Crankcase to the medibay, Fulcrum hurried down to the engine room.  Unsurprisingly, the W.A.P. needed a new infusion of energon.  One of the main goals of this stop had been to see if they could secure some, though it seemed that they wouldn’t get the chance.  Fulcrum sighed.  If they didn’t appropriate new fuel soon, the ship would be dead in the vacuum of space, which might just be enough to tip the six of them over the edge into true insanity.  If they didn’t starve to death first.

Once Fulcrum was sure that the engine would carry them safely away from the (now hostile) outpost, he headed back upstairs to check on the others.  In the medibay, Spinister was busy repairing Crankcase’s leg with—oh, was that Flywheels’ kneecap?  He’d wondered where that had disappeared to.

“Where’s Misfire?” Fulcrum asked, looking around.

“Checking on Grimlock, I think,” replied Spinister.  “Though, he was looking a little _funny_.”

Fulcrum sighed.  “Alright.  Thanks.”

The K-Con left the medibay, feeling a little restless.  Still on high-alert from the escape, and running warm from the engex, he went off in search of Misfire and Grimlock.

~*~

Misfire was, undoubtedly, feeling a bit _funny_. 

Once he’d made sure Grimlock was settled and not too upset about being excluded from their shore leave, he started making his way back to his own cabin.   Not that Grimlock really understood what he was missing out on, but he did understand being left alone.  Misfire didn’t like to leave him alone when he could avoid it, but he couldn’t chaperone the dinobot all the time.  He was a free spirit!  He needed to cut loose sometimes.  A little engex, a few jokes, and an undeniably attractive mech…  His thoughts flitted back to the neutral he’d left the bar with—shiny yellow finish, almost gold, wheels in the shoulders, probably a ground vehicle alt mode, blue optics, almost purple.  Blue-purple.  Blurple.  That wasn’t a word.  Was it?  Ah, well.  He’d ask Fulcrum later.  Or maybe not.  Anyway.  The yellow mech with the nice kibble.  Yeah.  Had some interesting spikes around his hips too.  Misfire had been revved up to get his servos all over those, but all they’d gotten in was some sloppy make-outs in the alley beside the bar before Fulcrum had called him.

Spike-blocked by his own crewmate!  He should feel annoyed.  He _was_ , but for some reason there was a churning in his tank that was starting to drown out everything else.

~*~

After checking Grimlock’s quarters and finding only the dinobot inside, Fulcrum moved on to Misfire’s.  He knocked on the door when he arrived.

“Hey, Misfire, you in there?  If you’re not busy I thought we could try this new game I got at the outpost before the shooting started.  It’s got pieces shaped like tiny spaceships.”

A faint groan filtered through the door.  Suddenly concerned, Fulcrum pressed his audio receptor against the steel.

“Misfire?  Are you alright?”  Something that sounded suspiciously like “bleargh” came as response.

“Okay, I’m coming in.”  Finding the door unlocked, Fulcrum entered the hab suite.  Misfire was sitting hunched over on the side of the berth.  Little crumbs of energon littered the floor, along with broken datapads and bits of scrap and other junk.  The jet’s face was drawn and he was digging his fingers into the edge of the platform, staring straight at the opposite wall.

“Misfire?  What’s wrong?”

“I—ugh—I dunno.  Just hit me all the sudden.  Might have had some bad engex?  Though that’s happened to me before and it doesn’t really feel like that…”

Fulcrum put a servo against Misfire’s trembling arm, then pulled it back quickly.

“Primus, Misfire.  You feel like a furnace.”

“I _feel_ like I’m dying.  Ughhh.”  Misfire drew his legs up and rolled over onto his side, shivering.

“Let me com Spinister,” Fulcrum told him, opening up his link to the ship’s medic. “Spinister?  There’s something wrong with Misfire.”

“More wrong than usual?”

“Uh, yeah.  I think he might have been drugged.”  Fulcrum glanced up at Misfire again, who was groaning and holding onto his middle, condensation beginning to bead on his overheated frame.

“I can’t look at him unless he comes down here.  I have to finish Crankcase’s repairs.”

“I’m not sure he’s in a position to do much moving around.  He really doesn’t look good.”

There was a pause from the other side.  Fulcrum could almost hear the circuits in Spinister’s brain module sizzling as he considered his reply.

“Bring me a fluid sample. I can test that.”

“A what now?” Fulcrum asked, optics wide.

“Anything.  Oral lubricant would work.”

“Oh, okay.  Gimme a nanoklik.”

A grunt echoed through the line before it disconnected.  Anxious, Fulcrum looked around the room for some kind of container.  His optics landed on an empty energon cube.  He scooped it up and rushed over to the whimpering jet.

“Misfire.  Hey, I need you to spit into this cube.”

“What?  Why?  Ugh.  _Wow_ , I feel _terrible_.”

“So Spinister can check to see if you were drugged.”

“Ugh, fine,” Misfire groaned, leaning forward and spitting what was, in Fulcrum’s opinion, a frankly excessive and definitely unusual amount of oral lubricant into the cube that he was holding.  A strand of it laced over his fingers as Misfire pulled back, sending Fulcrum’s tanks churning in disgust.

“Ew, Misfire, gross.”

“Ha.  Can’t handle a few bodily fluids, loser?”  The smile that had briefly lit up Misfire’s mischievous face quickly faded back to pained confusion.  Something was definitely not right.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised, before exiting the cabin and making his way as quickly as he could down to the medibay.  Crankcase’s repairs were still underway, but as his condition wasn’t anything near critical, Spinister took the lubricant sample from Fulcrum and ran it through his analyzer.  Fulcrum twiddled his fingers as Spinister observed the results. 

It still baffled him that Spinister could fail to follow most conversations, still thought that communication line in the bridge was a TV, shot inanimate objects for looking at him the wrong way, and yet could be absolutely brilliant when it came to understanding the cybertronian body.

“Well.  He wasn’t drugged,” Spinister said eventually.  Fulcrum sighed, not having wanted to dwell on the possibility that his friend had almost been taken advantage of by a strange mech while under the influence of an unknown substance.

“It’s a virus.  Overwrites interfacing protocols for a limited time.  Infectious, probably transmitted through fluids.  Misfire’s antivirus software should deal with it eventually.”

“Oh, that’s a reli—excuse me??” Fulcrum sputtered.  Misfire had contracted an interfacing virus??  Primus, that was more than he ever wanted to know about his crewmate’s interfacing habits.  So he _had_ been up to something with that neutral when Fulcrum had called him…  Not that it was any of his business.

“Yeah.  Keep him in his room.  Don’t want him down here.  He’d be a nuisance.”

“What?  I mean, isn’t there anything we can do for him?  He seemed like he was in a lot of pain…”  Overwrites interface protocols, Spinister had said.  What did that mean?  Did the virus force the host to experience interfacing sensations and then translate the pleasure to pain?  That sounded horrible.

Spinister turned aside and rifled through several drawers before finding what he was looking for and handing it to Fulcrum.

“You can give him that.”

Fulcrum looked down at the object in his hands, and felt a hot flush of energon in his face when he realized that it was undeniably some kind of false spike.

“That, isn’t exactly what I meant,” Fulcrum squeaked.  Spinister shrugged.

“Take it or leave it.  I’m going back to Crankcase.”

“Finally,” Crankcase muttered from the medical berth.  “Things I never ever wanted to hear about: Misfire’s malfunctioning interface equipment.”

Too embarrassed to protest further, and remembering Misfire’s pitiful situation, the K-Con hurried out of the medibay and back up to Misfire’s cabin, grateful at least that there was no one he could possibly run into and have to explain his awkward situation to.  Of course, the only member of the crew he hadn’t embarrassed himself in front of yet was Krok.

“Okay, Misfire, so, some awkward news.  Looks like you caught a virus that—“ Fulcrum vented in sharply, slamming the door shut behind him.  Misfire was no longer curled up on his side clutching his abdomen like he was about to purge his tanks.  Instead, the jet was flat on his back, knees up, modesty panel retracted, with his servo plunged knuckle-deep into his exposed valve.  Pink lubricant dripped down to form a puddle underneath his canted hips.

“Nng—Fulcrum!  There’s—ah—definitely something wrong.  I feel like I’m gonna fry my circuits.”

“I, uh,” Fulcrum stammered, paralyzed by the sight before him.  Even though he was no longer alone, Misfire had not stopped self-servicing.  His fingers slid in and out of his valve with a slick squelching sound.  It was…distracting.

“You…caught something.  From that mech you were with.  An interfacing virus,” Fulcrum eventually forced out of his vocalizer.

“A what?  All we did was make out a little…”  Finally, the jet removed his fingers from his valve, rocking up until he was sitting on the edge of the berth.  “S’not fair…”

“Spinister said that your antiviral programming should deal with it eventually, but for the time being you just have to deal with it.”

“Ugh, dammit Spinister… what does he know??  I feel like my plating is gonna fragging slide off, I’m so hot…”  Groaning, he ground his valve against the edge of the platform, lubricants running down the side and onto the floor.  Fulcrum could feel his own interfacing protocols begin to run at the sight of it, heat pooling behind his panel despite his embarrassment.

“Well, since you’re here… do you wanna help me “deal with it”?”  Misfire grinned, sliding a hand down the inside of his thigh and leaving behind a shiny trail from his wet digits.

“N-no!” squeaked Fulcrum, clutching the false spike tighter to his abdomen.  “You’re infectious, and I do not want to end up like you are right now!”

“Ah, Fulcrum, don’t be like that,” Misfire whined, his wandering hand moving to his spike—pressurized and ringed with bright pink biolights.  Transfluid leaked from the tip and the jet groaned as he smeared it up and down his shaft.  “It won’t be so bad.  If you get infected, I’ll be there with you.  We can help each other… please.”

“I-I can’t.  I won’t.  You’re not in your right mind, Misfire.  This virus is scrambling your brain.  If I agreed, I’d be taking advantage of you.”

“No no no.  Fulcrum.  Please.  I swear I’m not asking just because of the virus or whatever.  I wanna interface with you.  I want it so badly I feel like I’m gonna die.  I’ve wanted you for ages,” Misfire insisted piteously.

What?  Fulcrum knew his face must be red with embarrassment.  What was Misfire going on about?  They were friends, and Fulcrum’s own strangely tumultuous feelings for Misfire could not be taunted in this way.  Misfire had never given any indication that he wanted anything other than friendship from Fulcrum.

“Misfire…”

“Please, please, Fulcrum!” The jet begged, his fingers sinking into his valve again, hips rocking forward to work them deeper while his other servo kept him steady on the edge of the berth.  “I need you inside me.  I need you to help me.   It _hurts_ …”

Primus, Fulcrum’s insides were all twisted up in knots.  His head felt light, fuzzy.  He was scared.  Scared of standing idle while his friend suffered, scared of withholding the assistance he was capable of giving.  But he was also scared of catching Misfire’s virus, and losing control of his actions and admitting something he wasn’t ready to.  He was scared that once he was recovered, Misfire would hate him.  If this happened, it would ruin their friendship, and that was too, too important for Fulcrum to risk.  He had no one else.

“I can’t help you, Misfire,” Fulcrum whispered.  He looked down at the interfacing toy he’d almost torn in half in his distress.  “B-but Spinister said this might help, so take it.” 

Too scared to approach his friend, Fulcrum practically threw the false spike at his friend’s head, before turning and bolting out of the room.

Once there was a safe layer of metal between him and the wanton Misfire, Fulcrum sank to the ground, trembling.  He covered his face with his hands, venting out a blast of hot, damp air.  He felt sick and self-conscious.  He shouldn’t have been aroused by his friend’s predicament, he wasn’t in control of himself!  He felt wrong, and ashamed.  He declined a request to retract his modesty plating, spike itching to pressurize and valve beginning to lubricate behind its panel.

Fulcrum wanted to run back to his room and hide, forget what had just happened.  But Spinister had told him to keep an eye on Misfire, and he couldn’t leave his friend like this.  What if something happened?  What if he became so overheated the virus began causing damage to his systems?  Fulcrum had to stay nearby to ensure that didn’t happen.  He sat with his back to door, listening to the muffled sounds of Misfire self-servicing, and trying to ignore his own increasingly insistent arousal.

He sighed.  It was going to be a long night.

~*~

It took eleven hours for Misfire’s antiviral programming to purge the virus from his systems.  Eleven hours that Fulcrum spent sitting outside his door, drifting in and out of light recharge as the night drew on.  Finally, when the sound of his friend gasping and groaning had stopped for good, Fulcrum got to his feet and knocked on the door.

“Misfire?  Are you alright,” he asked, hesitant.  When he didn’t receive a response, he opened the door and looked inside.  Misfire lay on the berth, motionless, and didn’t respond when Fulcrum entered the room.  If the fluids staining the berth, the floor, and the walls had been energon, it would have looked like a massacre had taken place.  Lubricant and transfluid covered everything around Misfire in a pink, sticky film that Fulcrum found half horrifying, half arousing.  He approached his friend, frightened that he was injured.  When he got close, however, he realized from the gentle sound of fans running and the exhausted expression on Misfire’s face that he was just in recharge.  He’d purged the virus, but the ordeal had taken its toll.

Deciding that it was probably safe to leave his friend alone finally, Fulcrum made his way back to the door.  Out of the corner of his optic, he noticed the false spike lying on the floor, obviously well-used.  Swallowing down another surge of embarrassment, Fulcrum hurried on his way, reasoning that it should be Misfire’s responsibility to return the item to Spinister—if he even wanted it back.

“Spinister?” Fulcrum ventured through the communications link.

“Yeah?”

“I think Misfire’s burned out the virus.  He’s in recharge now.”

“Oh, good.”

“How is Crankcase?”

“Not super happy about the new leg, but it works.  Hard when I don’t have much to work with.  Did make use of Flywheel’s kneecap though!” he added brightly.

“Err, yeah. That’s—that’s great Spin.”  Fulcrum always felt uncomfortable about how cavalier his crewmates were about the death of their friend.  Had none of them particularly liked him to begin with, or were they all so conditioned by the war that grieving for the dead wasn’t something that even flickered across their processors anymore?  If he died, would they treat him the same way?  It was hard not to wonder sometimes. 

He knew that if anyone in the crew died, _he_ would mourn _them_.  But Fulcrum?  Krok would pay his respects, he was sure.  Crankcase and Spinister were up in the air; he got along well with them, but they weren’t _close_.  And what about Misfire?  Had the jet meant what he said?  About wanting him?  Fulcrum didn’t know what to think.  Maybe a good rest would sort him out. 

He was so tired from the long night that he fell into recharge the moment he hit the berth.

~*~

Six days after “the incident,” Misfire was absolutely certain that Fulcrum was avoiding him. 

Well, for the first few days they’d been avoiding each other, but Fulcrum’s behavior seemed even more extreme than his own.  Had Fulcrum really been that embarrassed by the whole situation?  Granted, it had been pretty humiliating, how needy and shameless he’d been behaving—but honestly, the one who should be most embarrassed was Misfire.  And he was.  Deeply.  But he was also ready to move past this and patch things up with Fulcrum, and if _he_ was ready, there was no reason why Fulcrum shouldn’t feel the same.   And really, it hadn’t even been his fault; it had been the virus.  Misfire liked to interface as much as any con—well, maybe a little more than any con—but he wasn’t usually _that_ desperate.

Surely Fulcrum wasn’t steering clear of him because he was a prude who’d never seen another mech in a compromising position before.  Was it because they were friends, and Fulcrum was freaked out at seeing him in that way?  Oh.  Now _that_ thought sent a sinking feeling into the jet’s tank.

He hadn’t been lying to Fulcrum when he said he wanted him.  The K-Con was undeniably attractive, and his easy and affable personality made him even more so.  He was fun to be around, smart, and they made a good team.  He wanted Fulcrum in his berth, but also at his side in a more… long-term arrangement.  They’d be perfect together, he just knew it.  But relationships were not Misfire’s strong suit, and he didn’t know how to go about confessing his feelings to his crewmate, or if they had any chance of being returned.  And this…was not the way he had wanted those thoughts and feelings to come out between them.

His spark felt heavy in his chest.  Maybe this was Fulcrum’s way of telling him that they had crossed a line that he hadn’t been prepared to cross—that he only saw Misfire as a friend and not as a potential partner.  Maybe he was afraid of letting Misfire down now that he knew about the jet’s feelings.  That…seemed like something he would do.

Misfire sighed.  He was…crushed, frankly.  But he didn’t want this unfortunate situation to ruin his friendship with the least dysfunctional member of the crew.  He had to set this right, somehow.

~*~

Fulcrum was alone in his room, tinkering with a new project, when a knock sounded at his door.

“Hey, uh, Fulcrum.  You in there?”

Scrap.  Misfire.  Fulcrum dropped the mechanism he was holding onto the work bench with a loud clang.  He knew that they would have to talk about what happened eventually, but he still wasn’t ready.  Those images of Misfire on his back, his legs spread and fingers stuffed into his soaking valve while he panted and cried out Fulcrum’s name were seared into his optics.  He saw them whenever he closed his eyes.  They kept him awake at night, interfacing protocols ready and eager to initiate.  It was only shame and guilt that kept Fulcrum from acting on those desires.

“Y-yes,” he stuttered out.  Dread filled his fuel tank as Misfire opened the door and poked his head in.

“Uh, hey, loser.  We should talk.”

“Do we need to?” Fulcrum replied, pretending to occupy himself with his project again.  He heard Misfire sigh as he approached.

“Yeah, we do.  Because you’ve been avoiding me ever since I caught that virus.”

“It was…uncomfortable,” Fulcrum admitted, setting the device down again and turning towards Misfire reluctantly.

“Yeah.  That’s what I wanted to talk about.  Because we’re friends, and I don’t want things to be awkward between us.  So, I might have said some… _things_ while under the influence of that virus, but I don’t want you to take them to spark.”

Fulcrum closed his eyes.  Here it was.  Misfire was going to admit that it really had just been the virus talking, that there wasn’t really anything between them, that Fulcrum was a terrible pervert for thinking of his friend this way when he hadn’t been able to control himself.  He steeled himself.

“So, when I told you that I liked you, like, a lot.  And would like to, uh, interface with you, I meant it.  It wasn’t the way I wanted to tell you, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to see me after I just about forced you into an uncomfortable situation like that.  So I apologize, and I don’t want you to feel pressured into anything.  I have those feelings, but I would rather keep you as a friend than lose you to something dumb like an awkward virus.”

“…what?” Fulcrum asked, mouth dry.

“What?” Misfire repeated, suddenly confused.

“You mean, you do actually like me, and it wasn’t just the virus?”

“…yes?”  Misfire said hesitantly, trying to work out what was happening.  Fulcrum groaned and put his face in his servos.

“All this time…  I felt ashamed, because when I saw you like that, I _did_ want to interface with you.  I was just afraid you didn’t really feel that way about me, and I would have been taking advantage.  It’s all I’ve been thinking about, so I couldn’t face you, because I’d just remember that night, and how much I wanted to give in.  How much I still do.”  He groaned again.  “I’m such a fragging idiot.”

Misfire’s confusion changed slowly into shock, and then bemusement as Fulcrum made his confession.  When it was over, he started to laugh.

“Ahaha, wow.  We’re both idiots.  Dumber than Spinister.  Incredible.  You mean instead of diving under tables and making up excuses like, ‘I have to bathe Grimlock,’ or ‘I need recalibrate the fuel receptors,’ we could have been fragging this whole time?”

“Don’t look at me,” mumbled Fulcrum into his servos.  Misfire laughed again, lighter, before getting up close to his friend.  Gently, he ran his fingertips down the K-Con’s trembling arms, surprising him out of his spiral of embarrassment.

“I want to look at you.”  Gingerly, Misfire trailed his fingers across Fulcrum’s chest plate and down to his abdomen, optics partially shuttered.  “So… now that we understand each other, do you want to frag?”

Fulcrum’s vent’s hitched, and his golden optics glowed brighter.  “You mean right now?”

“I’m ready to go whenever you are.  Why wait?”

“Yeah, yeah I guess you’re right.  Okay.”

“Good, good,” Misfire murmured, moving to straddle Fulcrum where he sat in his work chair.  He smoothed his fingers over the top of his friend’s helm, kissing him down the side of the face from crest to chin.

“Have I told you you’ve got a sexy chin recently?” he asked.  Fulcrum snorted.

“As a matter of fact, no, you haven’t.”

“Well, frag.  Good thing I’m telling you now.”  Misfire gave the aforementioned chin a sensuous lick, sending shivers of arousal through Fulcrum’s frame.  He was getting so revved up already, it was embarrassing.

“You’re hot…” Fulcrum murmured, pressing his own servos against Misfire’s abdominal plating.

“Thanks.”

“I meant your plating is hot.  But uh, yeah, you’re hot too, Misfire.”

“Didn’t really need to be said, but eh, always nice to hear it,” he said, grinning against the cables of Fulcrum’s neck before pressing in to nibble gently at them.

“Ah!” the K-Con cried out, hips jerking up reflexively and grinding into Misfire’s interface panel.  He was already getting one insistent ping after another to retract his panel and prepare himself for data exchange.  He could feel his valve slicking behind its cover and his spike trying to pressurize.

Misfire was thrilled.  He’d wanted this for so long—Fulcrum hot and squirming beneath him, ready to frag.  The smell of burning dust, heated lubricants, and ozone began to fill the room.  He couldn’t help it, it was intoxicating.  He ground his panel against Fulcrum’s, vents stuttering at the sudden intense sensations.  He felt hot and wet already, and he wanted Fulcrum inside him.

“Let’s move somewhere more comfortable,” he breathed into Fulcrum’s audio receptor.

“Y-yes,” the K-Con agreed, hips bucking up again as Misfire squeezed his waist.  The jet slipped off his lap, scooped him up, and brought him over to the berth.  Now it was Fulcrum lying on his back with Misfire leaning over him, running his servos up and down the inside of Fulcrum’s trembling thighs.

“Frag, you’re hot, with your tiny waist and your round shoulders and your strong _chin_ ,” Misfire rambled, kissing and licking Fulcrum’s belly, just above his pelvic armor, until the smaller con was whining and kicking and squirming underneath him.  “Primus, I want to taste you everywhere, I want to suck your spike and eat your valve and—“ _siphon your tanks while I frag you senseless_ , Misfire caught himself from saying.  The idea made him lubricate so much he could feel fluid beading along the seams of his modesty plating, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Fulcrum just yet.  Maybe one day the other con would let him get kinky, but tonight he wanted to keep things simple.

“M-Misfire!  Ah, frag…” Fulcrum groaned, clutching the jet’s shoulders tightly.

“Tell me what you want,” Misfire said sensually, pecking the front of Fulcrum’s pelvic armor.  The K-Con bucked up in response.

“Nnn, please!  I want… you to touch me.”

“Where?”

“M-my interface array.”

Slowly, Misfire dragged his glossa over the front of the array cover, leaving a glistening trail of lubricant.  “You have to open up first,” he murmured.

Stifling a cry, Fulcrum snapped his paneling back, which allowed his spike to pressurize and his valve to release all the fluids that it had built up inside it.  They dripped out of his wet opening and onto the berth beneath his aft.  Misfire practically started drooling.  Too impatient to tease Fulcrum anymore, he brought his head down between the other con’s legs and licked along the valve with the flat of his glossa.

Fulcrum screeched, a crackle of static disrupting his vocal processor.

“Mmmhm, good?” Misfire asked, swallowing the slippery lubricants.  A ragged groan was his only reply.  Humming thoughtfully to himself, Misfire delved back in, tracing the flexible rim of the valve with his glossa and teasing the bright exterior node.  Fulcrum whimpered and jerked, fresh waves of lubricants welling up to slick his array.  Misfire took in the scent, letting it arouse him even more.  He wanted to bury his face between Fulcrum’s legs until he could stimulate the sensory nodes inside the valve with his glossa.  He wanted to feel Fulcrum banging his feet against the berth and clutching Misfire’s head in his servos, forcing him in deeper.  Instead, he continued to lick and suck gently on the folds of Fulcrum’s slippery entrance, relishing the soft moans and spasms that shook his crewmate’s body.  After a few kliks, he began to nudge his face in further, drawing his glossa through the slit and slowly beginning to work it in deeper until it was tracing in the inner rim of the port.

“Frag, Misfire,” Fulcrum keened, pinning the jet between his knees as he squeezed his legs together reflexively.  “Please, please!”

Misfire wanted to ask him to clarify, but since his mouth was otherwise engaged, he just pressed on.  He had a pretty good idea of what his partner wanted, anyway.  In one swift motion, made easy by the flood of lubricants pooling out of Fulcrum’s interface equipment, Misfire thrust his glossa inside the tight channel.  Fulcrum wailed, grasping desperately at Misfire’s helm.  His heels ground against the berth as his valve contracted reflexively around the intrusion.  Misfire groaned when he felt the valve squeeze his glossa, lubricants filling his mouth.  The tip of his nose rubbed against Fulcrum’s anterior node, sending another spasm through his valve, accompanied by a hot rush of fluids.  His thighs were twitching, servos wrapped tight around Misfire’s horns, as he felt himself begin to crest towards overload.

“Misfire, I’m gonna… I can feel it,” he whined.

Misfire hummed into his valve, moving his servos up to press Fulcrum’s thighs further apart, then moving them in to trace the rim of the valve with his thumbs.  Drawing back slightly, he hooked the digits around the exterior edges of the opening and spread them wide, leaving Fulcrum’s dripping valve exposed, the faint yellow glow of his biolights glistening wetly.  This time when he dove in, his glossa could reach even deeper, and he sucked around the inner ring, slurping down the mix of transfluid and interfacing lubricants that was slicking Fulcrum’s inner walls.

With a cry, and a final spasm of contractions, Fulcrum overloaded.  Transfluid spurted out of his spike and dribbled down his abdominal plating as Misfire finally drew back to observe his work.  Panting and trembling, with a string of oral lubricant leaking out the side of his mouth, Fulcrum looked every bit the way he did in Misfire’s erotic fantasies.  He sighed in contentment, looming over the K-Con and licking his lips; his face was pink and sticky with Fulcrum’s lubricants, but the slight discomfort of it only turned him on more.

Fulcrum groaned softly, hips still rotating shallowly as he rode out the aftershocks of his overload.  His trembling servos, no longer maintaining their death grip on Misfire’s helmet, moved down to trace his own thighs and the sticky, drying mess of fluids staining him and the berth.  With a soft sound, he drew his fingers through the slippery lips of his valve and bucked into them.  Misfire hung over him, mesmerized as Fulcrum slipped two of his own fingers back into his valve and thrust, whining with need.

“Misfire… frag me,” he groaned, thrusting his fingers in and out, trembling with desire and still sensitive from the overload he’d just experienced.

Before he’d even realized it, Misfire’s own panel snapped back, releasing a reserve of accumulated valve fluids that slid down the inside of his thighs and onto the berth to mix with Fulcrum’s own.  His body trembled with desire, valve contracting painfully around nothing.

“Why don’t _you_ frag _me_?” he suggested, sliding his body up Fulcrum’s so that their arrays ground together.

“Ah! Okay,” Fulcrum agreed, spike already pressurizing again from the renewed stimulation of his valve.  Misfire sighed as their spikes slid against each other, their frames a mess of lubricants where they touched.  It was so hot, just thinking about how hot it was made the calipers in his valve cycle wantonly, aching to clutch something in their slick embrace.  Misfire dragged himself further up Fulcrum’s body, smearing more lubricant on the other mech’s thighs.  He slid the wet lips of his valve over Fulcrum’s spike, drawing a full-body shudder from the K-Con.

“How does it feel?” Misfire asked, unable to keep his mouth shut now that it was unoccupied.  “My valve on your spike, both of us so wet, so hot.  Are you thinking about how I’m going to feel around you?  How tight I’ll be, how perfectly you’re going to fit inside me, like we were made for each other.”  He groaned, rocking his hips so that the tip of Fulcrum’s spike pressed chastely against the sticky opening of his valve.

“I’m thinking about how you’re going to feel inside me.  Frag, I want it.  I _need_ it.  I feel so empty it hurts.”  Misfire clenched his valve in anticipation, a trickle of fluid rolling out and down Fulcrum’s shaft.  The other mech keened, trembling and jerking up in weak, aborted thrusts.  Misfire could feel how desperate he was, how much he wanted to give in and penetrate him, to connect them in a way they’d never been connected before.  It would be new and terrifyingly intimate.  Misfire was just as desperate for it, but he was also afraid. 

For a mech who almost never stopped talking, it wasn’t often that he said anything that revealed how he really felt, or what he really thought.  To be open was to be vulnerable, and vulnerable mechs died.  But this was a new world, terrifying and limitless, where old words had begun to lose their meaning and old wounds could perhaps finally start to heal.  Misfire hadn’t survived 4 million years of death and horror to close himself off to the possibilities allowed by peace.  To love, adventure, and hope.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he continued, pressing down just enough to allow the tip of Fulcrum’s spike to dip inside him before withdrawing.  “I mean, I thought you were hot the moment we met, but now that we’ve done so much together… I can’t imagine not having you around.  I…  I want you with me.  I want you near me.  I want you inside me.  I want to feel you thrust up into me until you grind against my ceiling node.  I want you to overload in me until your transfluid is dripping out my valve, until we’re both filthy and there’s steam coming out of our vents—“

“Misfire!” Fulcrum snapped, clutching the flier’s hip’s with both servos.  “Please, just shut up.” 

With that, the K-Con yanked Misfire’s hip’s down as he thrust his own up.  His spike breached the opening ring of Misfire’s valve effortlessly, drawing a high keen from the flier.  Misfire was tight, but the sheer amount of lubricant he’d produced eased Fulcrum’s passage and he sank into that hungry warmth until about two thirds of spike had disappeared inside the other mech.  He could feel the tip of his length brushing against the interior port, and he groaned as he pressed against it.  Misfire cried out above him, his thighs trembling on either side of Fulcrum’s own.

“Frag, oh frag, oh frag,” Misfire gasped, drawing himself up before sinking back down.  The head of Fulcrum’s equipment pressed against the tight ring of mesh that guarded access to his ceiling node and the delicate data exchange port below it.  It hurt as the ring was forced open; the thin, sensor-laden mesh stretched to accommodate Fulcrum’s spike.  But even the pain was arousing, and Misfire’s frame flooded with a desire for Fulcrum to force his way in and stimulate the node that would make his spark surge and his optics fill with light.

“Ah…ha, Fulcrum,” Misfire groaned, rocking his hips into the K-Con’s thrusts.  “Feels so good.  Ha… Feels _right_.  You inside me.  Us together.”  Misfire had wrapped his arms around the K-Con’s narrow shoulders and buried his face in the smaller mech’s neck.  

“I know I don’t say it a lot, but I really like you,” he murmured, rubbing little circles into the joints of Fulcrum’s hips.  “You’re honest, and you _care_ , and you wouldn’t think that would be so hard but… I think most of us.  We’ve forgotten.  We’ve forgotten how to be anything other than soldiers, or survivors. This war fragged us all up.  Decepticons _and_ autobots.”  Misfire cycled the calipers in his valve, drawing groans from both of them as Fulcrum continued to thrust shallowly into him.

“We’re soldiers and the war is over, and we don’t know what to do with ourselves.  I know Krok is dissatisfied, and I don’t think Crankcase knows _how_ to not be miserable.  Spinister’s probably too stupid to care.  And I…nnn!” Misfire broke off with a cry, throwing his head back. 

“I don’t know about _you_ , but I—I’m _happy_.  I really fragging am.”  He dug his fingers into Fulcrum’s back, damp with condensation, and kissed the crook of his neck.  “A ship, some friends, a _good_ friend, and a whole universe full of mysteries and adventures.  Maybe a little more danger than I’d like, but we’ve survived this long, right?  We don’t need to go back to Cybertron, who needs—ah—Starscream as their king?  Or some bossy, self-righteous autobot, acting like they didn’t do the same horrible things we did during the war, like they don’t have the names of all the living things they’ve killed written on their backs.  No way!”

With a sudden surge of energy, Misfire pulled back, letting Fulcrum’s spike slide out of him.  He put his servos on Fulcrum’s chest and pushed him down onto his back, looming over the smaller con.

“That’s not what I want.”  Carefully, Misfire maneuvered the other mech’s spike back to the slick entrance of his valve, rocking forward to wet the tip before sinking down again.  Misfire sighed, reveling in the sensation of being stretched and filled.  Fulcrum cried out, his hips giving little twitches and jolts as Misfire cycled his calipers down hard, spinning them around a bit to keep Fulcrum on the edge.

“This.  This is what I want.  You and me.”  He laced his fingers with Fulcrum’s trembling ones, resting their joined servos over Fulcrum’s spark chamber.  “The two of us, in this little room, drifting through space, chasing stars, discovering what’s been lost, no one to answer to, no tyrant to fight for.”  He brought their lips together in a kiss, sucking Fulcrum’s glossa into his mouth and tasting the residue of his own fluids.  When he eventually pulled back, a string of oral lubricant connected their lips.

“So, are you happy?” Misfire asked softly, his expression suddenly very vulnerable.  Fulcrum rocked his hips up, moaning softly.  He reached up with his free hand to draw his digits down the side of Misfire’s face.

“I am happy,” Fulcrum murmured, his golden optics glowing softly in the darkened room.  “This is—ah—honestly, probably the happiest I’ve ever been.  The war was so long, and so dark, and I—hnn—I’m not brave. You know that.  Anything I do that might come off as brave is more stupidity and impulsiveness than anything.  But here, with you, with everyone on this ship, and our weird, stupid adventures—I’m exactly where I want to be.”  He unlaced their hands, wrapping his arms around the back of Misfire’s neck and pulling him down until their helms were pressed together, noses brushing.

“Kiss me again,” Fulcrum whispered, almost a plea, not quite a demand.  Misfire didn’t need to be asked twice.  He brought their lips together again, glossas sliding against each other as he delved into the hot cavern of Fulcrum’s mouth.  With a sudden release of tension, Misfire felt his interior port finally give way and allow Fulcrum to sheath himself fully inside the other Mech.  Misfire moaned as he felt Fulcrum’s spike slide through the ring of mesh and fill a hollow place inside him he hadn’t even known existed.  When the spike brushed against his ceiling node, a jolt of electricity shot through his frame, seizing his joints up as a wave of pleasure crashed through him.

“Fraaaag,” he whined, grinding himself down onto Fulcrum.  The slick, stretched lips of his valve smeared lubricants all over the other mech’s pelvic array.  Fulcrum had gotten so hot he was panting out of his mouth, his fans all running on full blast.  The entire hab suite was filled with the sharp, burning smell of overheated circuitry and interfacing fluids.

It felt like Fulcrum was penetrating every part of him, running through his veins like energon, overwhelming and inescapable.  How strange that this odd, reserved survivor they’d found lost amidst a million unburied corpses—abandoned, unwanted, and betrayed by the cause he’d dedicated his life to—would become so important to him in such a short amount of time.  Misfire wasn’t going to lie to himself.  He was a murderer, just like everyone else.  He’d learned not to get attached and not to let the people he killed or the comrades he lost keep him for forging ahead, or drawing what enjoyment he could out of life.  He’d gotten this far by being strong, by building a shell up around himself that nothing could break.  And he could feel that shell cracking apart like dry earth.

For the first time in a very long time, Misfire felt small.  Fulcrum had made him vulnerable.  He trembled, squeezing the other mech tight in his arms as they moved together.  He was aware that it was in his power to crush him with his bare hands.  Fulcrum was strong, but his armor was thin, and his frame was not built for endurance—it was built to shatter.  He thought of what his friend had suffered at the hands of their own side—forced to await his own execution, forced to surrender the integrity of his body, changed into a weapon, expected to commit suicide for a cause he no longer believed in.  The only reason he was still alive was because his fear had kept him from transforming when he fell from the sky all those millennia ago.

A surge of anger filled him.  Anger at Megatron, anger at the DJD, anger at the whole decepticon cause—at the universe that had allowed this terrible thing that they called a war, because there wasn’t a word big enough to convey the scale of it, to happen.  The decepticons had undone themselves more thoroughly than the autobots ever had.  Maybe it was for the best that they had lost. 

It was funny, in a way.  Even though Misfire was on the losing team, he felt that he had won.  He had what he wanted, and he was content.  He wanted this to happen, even if it terrified him.  For Fulcrum, he would open himself up to weakness—embrace it.  This thing between them was fragile.  If it broke, it could cut them both deeply.  Maybe he was being stupid, but Misfire felt that now, maybe he was ready to take that risk.

“Fulcrum,” he sighed, “Fulcrum, please.  Come on…”  He was so _close_ , he could feel the tension rising up inside him like the dawning of a new future.  “Frag me, please, please.”  He wanted Fulcrum to _take_ , but all he got was a shushing sound and a soft kiss.  Fulcrum was being so gentle, he couldn’t stand it.  Misfire’s whole frame was trembling.  He squeezed his valve tightly around the other mech, jerking his hips in little thrusts to press the spike against his ceiling node again.  He could feel the charge between them crackling as he crested towards his own overload.

“Misfire!  Oh, oh!” Fulcrum gasped, his spinal strut stiffening, optics blazing white as another squeeze around his spike triggered his overload.  As the hot gush of transfluid filled him, Misfire reached his own climax with a cry, steam rising from his vents as he came.  They gasped and moaned against each other as they rode out their overloads, Misfire leaning down to press their chest plates together as his valve spasmed and transfluid trickled out and onto Fulcrum’s thighs.

It took a few minutes for both of them to come down.  When they did, Misfire drew himself back up, allowing Fulcrum’s spike to slide out of him with a wet squelching noise.  He groaned, then flopped down onto his side next to the K-Con, nuzzling the side of his throat.

“Good?” he asked.

“Mmm, yeah,” Fulcrum replied, turning over so that he was facing Misfire and twining one of his legs between the other mech’s.  Misfire’s optics shuttered low as Fulcrum traced gentle patterns on his cheek with his finger.

“So, what does this mean?” asked Fulcrum, suddenly apprehensive.  Misfire wrapped an arm around his back and drew him in closer.

“It means I have a lot of feelings for you that I haven’t had for anyone in a long time, and I hope, I really hope, you feel the same way about me.”

“I think I do,” Fulcrum admitted, tucking his head under Misfire’s chin.  The flier moved his servo to smooth little circles on the side of Fulcrum’s help, over his decepticon badge.

“I’m really glad to hear that.  Relieved, actually,” Misfire sighed.

“So are we lovers now, or something?” asked Fulcrum.

“That’s what I was hoping.”

“Oh, okay.  Yeah.  That sounds… that sounds pretty nice actually.”  He paused.  “So does that mean you’re going to stop calling me pinhead?”  Misfire hummed thoughtfully for a moment.

“…nah.”

“Aft.”

“You love me though.”

He could feel the flier grinning.  Fulcrum sighed, wondering if he’d just made a monumental mistake.

“Not if you act like a jerk.  You have to be nicer to me now.”

“I’m nice to you.”

“You glued me to a chair last week.”

“That was one time!”  Misfire pouted.  “It was pretty funny though.”

“Not for me it wasn’t!”

“Okay, okay.  Fragging rights, no more glue-related pranks.”

“No pranks, period.”

“Aw, but you’re the only one I can mess with without fearing for my life.”

“Sometimes actions have consequences.  You have to learn to deal with them, Misfire.”

“Fine, fine.  Now, come on, kiss me again.”  Fulcrum rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself.

“Yeah, yeah.  Okay.”  He tilted his head back, their noses brushing briefly before they maneuvered their mouths together for another deep, sweet kiss.  Misfire could be a pain, but Fulcrum was certain now that he’d meant everything he said, and he couldn’t deny that he’d fallen hard for the other con.  He knew that this was where he belonged, where he was wanted, and that the crew he’d come to care for wouldn’t abandon him. 

Whatever insane, bizarre, embarrassing, or terrifying adventures lay in their future, he felt sure now that they’d get through them together. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!! Comments, even short ones, absolutely make my day!


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